Duane's Depressed

by Larry McMurtry

  “Charlus is my man,” Jake Lawton said. “He’d have done fine in the oil business, don’t you think, Duane?”

  “Or he would have until he made a pass at some roughneck and got his head bashed in,” the doctor said.

  Duane didn’t answer—he saw that Jake Lawton didn’t really care whether he answered or not.

  “I thought you could read French, Dr. Lawton,” Nina said. “I thought you had a house in France.”

  “Yes, in the Dordogne, but we sold it,” Jake Lawton said. “Once we bought the ranch here we got too busy to be running off to France.”

  “But you do read French, don’t you?” Nina asked. The point seemed to trouble her.

  “Honey, I read it fine when I was in Princeton,” Jake Lawton said. “But that was a long time ago. Jacqueline and I have been trying to learn Japanese—we both love Japan—but I guess we’re too old. We don’t have the head for it now.”

  “I thought we were supposed to talk about Proust,” Reuben Orenstein complained. “My point is it’s all hypochondria—it’s the epic of hypochondria. It’s about people who constantly think there’s something wrong with them when in fact they’re healthy as horses.

  “Who needs it?” he added. “I don’t.”

  “If you don’t need it, then why did we drive all this way down here?” Joanie asked. “If you don’t like the stupid book, then why do you bug me every night if I haven’t read as many pages as you’ve read?”

  She had spoken with real anger—her husband seemed taken aback.

  “It’s just that if you say you’re going to read it you should read it,” he said mildly.

  “Oh yeah, you always say you’re going to do things you don’t do,” Joanie said, growing more angry as she spoke. “You say you’re going to have sex with me but then you never do.”

  To her husband’s horror Joanie burst into tears and ran off the patio into the house. They heard the front door slam. Reuben sighed, picked up their Proust books, and got ready to leave.

  “I guess that’s Joanie’s way of letting me know it’s time to go back to Oklahoma City,” he said.

  “No it isn’t, you fucking idiot!” Nina said, her face red with anger. “It’s her way of letting you know she’d like you to have sex with her.”

  Reuben ignored Nina completely—he acted as if she didn’t exist.

  “Thanks for having us, Honor,” he said. “That’s great salsa. I can’t remember when I had salsa this good.”

  Then he left.

  “I’ve never been fond of neuro-ophthalmologists,” Jake Lawton said. “I guess we need a few, but I’ll tell you one thing: I wouldn’t marry one.”

  “I wonder what would happen if Proust should come to Oklahoma?” Honor mused.

  “Honor, Proust is never going to come to Oklahoma,” Nina said.

  “It was a rhetorical question,” Honor said. “Can’t I even ask a rhetorical question?” She had poured herself another gin and tonic.

  “Yeah, well, Reuben Orenstein is a little jerk,” Nina said hotly. “Everything he said about Proust was idiotic. Now he’s going to try to get us to read some Bulgarian? Oh please!”

  She got up and flounced into the house, highly indignant.

  Darkness fell, and Proust was forgotten. The Lawtons were planning a trip to Tibet—Jake Lawton got very excited, talking about it.

  “We did Nepal long ago,” he said. “But you couldn’t get into Tibet, in those days. Now you can. Jac and I are heading out as soon as we hold our longhorn auction.”

  “Tibet’s too high for me,” Honor said. “I get dizzy if I even go to Wyoming.”

  “What about Angie?” the doctor asked. “I heard she was a traveler.”

  Honor made a face.

  “Only to countries with three-star restaurants and four-star hotels,” Honor said. “The Michelin is Angie’s holy book. The only way she’ll ever see Tibet is if she sails over it on her way to heaven.”

  She chuckled and sipped her drink.

  “Which is a slim likelihood,” she added, and chuckled again.

  “You think Nina’s gone for the night—should we go and say good night to her?” Jake Lawton asked, when he stood up to leave.

  “Let her be,” Honor said. “Tolerance is not Nina’s long suit.”

  “I suppose that’s youth,” the doctor said.

  Honor glanced at the house. A light had come on in an upstairs bedroom. They saw Nina pacing back and forth, a cell phone pressed to her ear.

  “She’s calling Angie, to tell her what a jerk Reuben is,” Honor said.

  The four of them walked out to the street. Jacqueline was so drunk her husband had to keep a firm grip on her arm to keep her from wobbling off the sidewalk.

  “Jac, you’re in your cups,” he said. “Way down deep in your cups.”

  Honor carried the Lawtons’ books, while the doctor practically carried his wife. Honor walked beside Duane. Now and then her arm brushed his.

  “In case you’re wondering, Nina is Angie’s niece,” she said, as they eased down the sidewalk.

  Just as they got to the curb Jacqueline Lawton’s knees buckled, but Jake Lawton, in one smooth motion, opened the car door and rolled his drunken wife gently into the backseat.

  “She’s out,” he said. “Jac can’t really drink, anymore. I think it’s those hormones she’s on.”

  “It was nice of you to come,” Honor said. “We’ll see you before you leave for Tibet.”

  “Oh, that’s not until after the longhorn auction,” Jake said. “Why don’t you come this year, Duane? Bring Karla. Buy your wife a longhorn for a pet.”

  “Karla’s dead, Jake—car wreck,” Duane said. “About two years ago.”

  “Oh dear, I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “Jac and I must have been traveling and I missed it. I guess that explains why I haven’t seen her around.

  “My God,” he added. “I had no idea Karla had been killed. I liked Karla.”

  Then he shook Duane’s hand, kissed Honor, got in his car, and drove off. The car was almost out of sight before Honor remembered that she was still holding the Lawtons’ books in her hand.

  “Shit,” she said. “Now I’ve given Jake Lawton an excuse to come back. It was the fact that he mentioned your wife that threw me off.”

  The mention of Karla had thrown Duane off too. He assumed that everyone local who had known Karla even slightly knew by then that she was dead. But the Lawtons did travel a lot and he and Karla had only seen them once or twice a year, at public events. No one had happened to mention it to the Lawtons—the doctor’s surprise had been genuine.

  But the fact that Karla had been dropped into the evening jangled Duane a little. He had been standing near Honor—he wanted to kiss her as soon as the Lawtons left. He had persuaded himself that Honor might want him—why else would she invite him? But then Jake Lawton mentioned Karla—it spoiled the moment, in a way.

  Honor still stood there, the heavy paperbacks in her hands. She looked down the street, perhaps hoping Jake Lawton would realize his mistake and come back for the books. But the car didn’t reappear—the two of them were alone. Duane stepped closer—he was afraid there might not be another such moment. When he leaned nearer to kiss her, Honor didn’t move away, but she inclined her head slightly, so that the kiss missed. He just brushed her cheek—he could smell the gin on her breath.

  “Nope—you mustn’t,” Honor said, in a pleasant voice.

  “Honor, I’m in love with you,” Duane said. “I can’t lie about it. I’m in love with you.”

  Again he leaned forward to kiss her and again Honor Carmichael deftly inclined her head. She did not seem agitated. She was not even looking at him. She still gazed down the street.

  “I’m in love with you,” he said, a third time.

  “I heard you,” Honor said. “It’s mainly my fault. I’m afraid I crossed the line.”

  “But it isn’t a fault,” Duane said. “It’s just a fact.”

  “Duane
, there are two of us here,” Honor said, in the same pleasant voice. “What’s a fact from your point of view might be a fault from mine.”

  She looked at him in silence. She did not seem to be upset—indeed, she seemed as calm and friendly as she had been when he arrived that evening. But she was not going to kiss him, and he didn’t know what that left them, exactly. It was too bad Jake Lawton had mentioned Karla—it seemed to him the kiss might have worked if he hadn’t become slightly jangled.

  “Your helmet’s in the house,” Honor reminded him. “I don’t want you getting brained on your ride home. I’m afraid it wasn’t such a high-minded evening, either. This reading group has seen better days.”

  When he retrieved his helmet and got ready to pedal off to his cabin, Honor once more accompanied him back down the sidewalk. She seemed serene, and perfectly at ease with him, which annoyed him slightly.

  “Thanks for coming,” Honor said. “Your appointment is tomorrow at the customary time. Perhaps we’ll talk a bit about this thing called love.”

  “I hope so,” Duane said.

  Honor did not appear to be offended, or anxious, or even nervous.

  “Going to your cabin?” she asked.

  “Going to my cabin,” Duane said.

  She was still standing in her yard when he pedaled away. She watched him but she didn’t wave.

  21

  DUANE GREW MORE AND MORE AGITATED, as he pedaled home through the dark pastures. It was a still night—he could smell the dust his wheels threw up. At first he merely felt a little embarrassed. He had gone to the gathering afraid of saying something foolish in front of a bunch of people who were better educated than himself, which hadn’t happened. Even though the guests were supposed to talk about Proust they barely got around to it and the kind of things happened that could happen at any party. An old woman got drunk, a young couple quarreled, the salsa was good. Jake Lawton showed off a little but did nothing outrageous. It was, in the main, a normal party and he had fit in well enough.

  He hadn’t embarrassed himself intellectually, but then, as the evening was ending, he had embarrassed himself emotionally by trying to kiss a woman who didn’t want to kiss him—a woman he should have known wouldn’t want to kiss him.

  Although he kept telling himself that it was silly to think that way, he still felt that Karla’s sudden appearance in the conversation had doomed his attempt to kiss Honor. At the mention of Karla his own confidence evaporated, his effort carried no conviction. It was as if Karla had inserted herself just in time to prevent him from having any real contact with the one woman he really wanted. She had done it often enough while she was alive, and now she was doing it from the grave.

  By the time he reached his cabin he was far too agitated to sleep. A chance to touch a woman had seemed to glimmer there, in the warm summer night—and then had flickered and flown away, like a firefly. It seemed to him that he had bumbled terribly—a teenager could have done better.

  A little later, though, his mood shifted and he just felt a fool. Why had he ever supposed there was a chance, where Honor was concerned? Her own father had made it plain that she was gay. What had he been thinking, to stand there and tell her three times that he was in love with her?

  That night, when he finally dozed, Honor and Karla mixed erratically in his dreams. He seemed not only to smell the gin on Honor’s breath; he smelled her sweat. He heard Karla say his name: “Duane, Duane.” She said it as only she said it, changing the intonation to match her mood. She might say “Duane” in such a way as to make it an invitation, or a threat, or a tease, or a condemnation. Sometimes she said it just to let him know she had her suspicions.

  Duane awoke unrested. So much emotion had coursed through him during the night that he felt a little shaky. He didn’t know what he ought to do. He had an appointment with Honor, in only a few hours. She had even said, pleasantly, that they might talk about this thing called love.

  He rode into Thalia to get clean clothes and stopped to chat with Ruth for a moment, but he did not mention his evening. His attempted kiss wouldn’t disturb her but if he told her he had sat around with a bunch of people attempting to talk about Proust she would have considered the whole thing absurd.

  Nor did he mention it to Bobby Lee, who was so deep in the doldrums that he would have been unlikely to be moved by any troubles other than his own. Jennifer and her mother, in what Bobby regarded as a conspiracy of silence, had secretly drawn up a list and sent out wedding invitations.

  “The trap’s closing—the trap’s closing,” Bobby Lee muttered, to anyone who would listen.

  “You don’t have to get married if you don’t want to. I don’t care how many invitations they’ve sent out,” Duane said.

  “I don’t know—some of the people they’ve invited live as far away as Missouri,” Bobby Lee said, as if that fact alone sealed his doom.

  “You better stand up for yourself now,” Duane warned. “If you don’t you’ll be changing diapers when you’re ninety.”

  “I won’t make no ninety,” Bobby Lee said. “If I even make eighty-six I’ll be lucky.”

  “Okay, but you still may not feel like changing diapers,” Duane said.

  He poked around in his garden for most of the morning, doing a little watering and hoeing, pulling up a dead plant here and there, picking a few tomatoes. He had begun to leave a bushel basket of tomatoes out by the road every day—always, the basket was empty by nightfall.

  Where Honor Carmichael was concerned, he told himself, he should just give up. He could not have what he wanted, which was Honor as a lover. She had a companion and seemed to be living happily with her. The fact that her companion seemed to him a spiteful little person didn’t mean anything. In houses all over Thalia men and women were living more or less happily with spiteful and quarrelsome mates. Karla had exhibited no shortage of spite, and yet he had lived happily with her for four decades. The ways in which people got along, or didn’t, were unfathomable, at least to him.

  All morning he wavered about whether to keep his appointment. On impulse he went to the bank and drew out ten thousand dollars in cash. He made sure he had his passport and his reading glasses. Then he pedaled to Wichita Falls and stopped at a travel agency. He thought he might just leave—he might do what he had been telling himself he would do for two years: go to Egypt, see the pyramids. The summer was almost over, his garden almost gone. In two weeks it would be time to plow it up.

  The travel agent, a skinny woman in her seventies with a lot of blue hair, quickly sketched out his options. He could go Wichita Falls–Dallas–New York–Cairo, or Wichita Falls–Dallas–London–Cairo, or Wichita Falls–Dallas–Paris–Cairo, or Wichita Falls–Dallas–Frankfurt–Cairo. Which would it be?

  Duane didn’t know, couldn’t choose. The important thing was that he knew he could get to Cairo quickly, once he decided to go. The planes, as the travel agent assured him, flew every day. He wavered until the lady grew impatient.

  “Duane, do you want to travel, or do you just want to sit there and daydream about the land of the pharaohs?” she asked.

  “Oh, I want to travel—I just have to talk it over with my wife first,” he said.

  “Oh goodness, I’m sorry,” the agent said. “I didn’t know you’d married again.”

  “I didn’t—I meant my old wife,” he said.

  He left the lady looking puzzled, a mass of travel folders spread out on her desk. He had mentioned his wife mainly to back the lady off, but in fact he still had occasional little dialogues with Karla—it was just that when he had the dialogues he spoke both parts. Where Karla was concerned, he felt sure she would approve of his trip. Anything to break his ridiculous fixation with Honor Carmichael would be fine with Karla.

  He arrived a few minutes early for his appointment, very nervous. Nina was the receptionist.

  “Oh hi,” she said. “I’m sorry I ran off last night without saying good-bye. Reuben Orenstein really pisses me off. You sat through
the whole evening without saying a word.”

  Duane didn’t tell her that that was how he wanted it. He poked through the magazines, trying to find the one with the article about the pyramids—it didn’t seem to be there.

  Honor smiled at him when he came in. To his surprise she was wearing a white doctor’s smock over a blue Western shirt and Levi’s. She had on boots.

  “I know—mixed messages today,” she said. “Am I a doctor, or am I a cowgirl? Jake Lawton talked me into letting him show me his precious longhorns, but then there was an emergency at the state hospital and I had to rush back.”

  “I almost didn’t come,” he admitted—he felt a need to say it.

  “Then I guess that’s what we’ll talk about—why you almost didn’t come,” she said, motioning toward the couch.

  Duane lay down. He felt nervous and began to hyperventilate. Honor started to sit down and then went to the door.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I’ll only cheat you of a minute or two. I can’t think in these clothes. I keep thinking of the Lone Ranger, for some reason. Whatever your problems, I don’t think you’re the Lone Ranger.”

  In less than five minutes she was back, wearing a green blouse and white skirt.

  “That’s something I guess I ought to talk to my shrink about,” she said. “I can’t function as a psychiatrist unless I’m dressed like a psychiatrist. What does that say?”

  Duane didn’t answer—though seeing her in cowboy clothes had jangled him a bit. Seeing her in normal clothes relaxed him; more than that, life seemed to swing back into perspective. He stopped feeling quite so weird.

  “Tell me why you almost didn’t come,” she asked.

  “I feel embarrassed about last night,” he said. “Real embarrassed.”

  “You mean you were thinking of abandoning your therapy altogether because you tried to kiss me and I didn’t let you? Is that right?” she asked.